Only Forty Minutes From London

Standard

We’re not panicking, she whispers,
though a sheen of sweat
passes cold across her high forehead.

Under the non-London streets,
her feet feel the threatening thrum –
a dirty noise, driven on by
pissed off passion-
loose fit and left out.

In the corner lurks a clown
whose hand scribbled signs
remind her of how low she’d go,
how far she’s come.

As his painted features fade
to the panic made of pit deep fear,
she wakes, eyes wide,
heart bruising the brushed
cotton sheets.

Fuck, she breathes, easing
herself out of the dark night,
into the bright Chelsea streets.

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